remember that you can't save everyone
remember that you have to try
Today had been a better day; not restless, not plunged headlong into delirious thoughts or haunting refrains from the corner of his eyes, not shackled with the scraping, gnawing feeling of the sickness making a return. The beast had wandered along outskirts, attempting to stake memories, routines, and patterns into this new life, transferring methods he’d employed within the Grounds, or even along the Basin, into structure, regimen. There were alterations to be made, there were plans to unfurl, there were tactics to deploy – but it would come with time. He could instill patience again, grant and give himself a chance to recover from the spurning and weight of grief, the inflections of change, and then everything else spiraling around, against, or upon it. The notion of relaxation, of repose, however, had always been such a foreign concept. He’d had it before, with friends, with family, with loved ones, but as the losses grew, as the burdens multiplied, as the agony sizzled, the sanctums and sanctuaries had been difficult to find, or even muster the will towards their discovery. But he’d found thresholds here, people once more amenable to giving, to trying, to instilling friendships and camaraderie with him.
Which still struck him as bizarre, even years later. A machine, a weapon, a Reaper had become used to being utilized as naught more than a bleeding blade.
In another series of moments, Deimos would’ve fought it. Would’ve sunk into his anguish and dug his heels into the melancholy, formed blistering enamel so the walls were too high to breach, so the fortifications were too unyielding to bear, so no one would bother him again. He’d been hurt enough. He’d been strong for so damned long that the semblance of being weak, of being useless, of being a vulnerable vessel again ensured he held his head so seditiously –
A breath, and he’d made it to the bar. The Sword couldn’t recall Morgan trying this before, when he’d been deranged and bleeding from his skull, but he’d try. He’d try because the Warden and Chulane had attempted, strived, and offered him a place, when he didn’t deserve it. When he didn’t deserve anything.
He’d come too late to witness the sniping between Warden and barkeeper, snagging at his own drink from the counter, obliging the man with a nod, before piercing eyes caught sight of her before the fire. The monolith, despite his size, masked his presence with silent precision, too many lifetimes built and orchestrated as a predator. Deimos was sorely tempted to simply sit while her eyes remained closed, make no noise at all in the realm of mischief. Instead, he lifted the chair at the same table, ensuring it didn’t touch the ground, dragged upwards, before placing it quietly down on the wooden floor, and then himself planted on its sanction. The only resounding noise he permitted thereafter was the sound of his glass hitting the table – eyes purposefully waiting for a reaction.
out for vengeance
DEIMOS
